


A Handsome Lad in Comely Britches

by oonaseckar



Category: Frederica - Georgette Heyer, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Gen, Georgette Heyer - Freeform, M/M, Regency, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 05:06:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21488827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: It's the Regency. The Xaviers are flat broke, and dependent on Raven making a good (read: filthy lucre) match. And Georgette Heyer is running amok.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr & Raven | Mystique, Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	A Handsome Lad in Comely Britches

It wasn't usual for a brother to be the one helping to dress his sister, for her first ball at Almack's. But then Charles was a far cry from anyone's idea of a usual brother. 'Oh, do hold still, young lady,' he said impatiently, as far as he was able with a mouthful of hairpins. 'We have less than half an hour to get you all ship-shape, and you're still fiddling around and undoing all my good work every two minutes. Hold still!'

Their mamma looked up from where she was seated on the chaise-longue in the corner, reading a copy of _The_ _Lady_. 'My children, I still don't understand why Charles is the one to be fiddle-faddling with your hair and accoutrements and all the rest of it. For why do we pay for the services of your lady's-maid, if not for this very occasion and others like it?' Her tone denoted no real concern: only a polite enquiry. Lady Xavier had about as much concern for her brood of children, both by blood and by marriage, as she had for her troop of miniature spaniels: or perhaps about half of that. And she was luke-warm enough regarding her dogs.

Charles barely paid any attention: it did not pay with Mamma, he had found by now in his twenty-one years. 'We pay her because Raven must have a lady's-maid, as befits her station, Mamma,' he observed, pinning and curling and making ready with the hot hair tongs right out of the fire. 'And, for special occasions such as this one, I send her off to the garden for a walk with Betty the kitchenmaid. Because the end result is too important, and though she is competent enough for everyday requirements, she cannot produce the end results that I can. She has not the finesse, and the stakes are something she cannot understand.'

So Mamma shrugged and simply discarded her periodical, to turn to her edition of Richardson's _Pamela_, because it was the truth and she knew it. And Raven stilled under his ministrations, his large but gentle hands as they created a spun-sugar confection of her hair with skill and tenderness. Because she knew it too, and understood: since the death of their father, Sir Brian, and the revelations of their precarious financial state, a number of things had become clear. The foremost amongst these being, that they were living upon borrowed time and upon credit, and at some point their creditors would begin to resemble a pack of howling wolves, out for their blood. A solution must be found, and preferably one that did not involve levels of retrenchment and penury that would cause Mamma to retreat from all social intercourse from shame, and the rest of them to be effectively barred by poverty and everyday labour – work! And what kind of work were any of them fit for, with the upbringings they'd had? - from the social circles they'd always moved in with ease and comfort.

The simplest solution, of course – and simultaneously the most difficult – was marriage. A nice rich marriage, for at least one of them, and since they numbered three – Cain, the eldest boy, Raven the girl and himself, Charles, the younger son destined for the church – they had three chances to save the family fortunes.

But Cain was rough in his manners and somewhat ape-like in his appearance, and none of the family, even Mamma to whom he was a favourite, held out much hope for him bringing home an heiress to save their bacon. It was not perhaps impossible, but it was certainly unlikely.

For himself, he had always been accounted fair and pleasing enough both in face, form and manner – had even stirred a few ladies' hearts, perhaps – but he was a younger son, and it must be faced. He would have no title with which to tempt some mercantile magnate's daughter, and it reduced his chances of marrying well – at least in terms of filthy lucre – considerably.

As for Raven, she was untitled also, a mere Honourable, but it might serve her well enough in the marriage market. She had a truly lovely face, the beauty of the family: and a rich man from the common masses knew no wife could transfer her honorifics to him. A distinguished lineage and a high level of pulchritude, along with Raven's pretty ways, might be accounted sufficient.

And so in their own ways, each of the three of them was disadvantaged, when it came to hooking a spouse with the goods. Nevertheless they had to try, each of them as best they might: there were precious few other options open to them.

And thus it was so terribly important that Raven look her utmost, her very loveliest, now she was on the point of coming out, with her first ball at Almack's. And that was why it was a job he couldn't possibly trust to anyone else.

There was a good ten minutes of final fussing, perfecting every little last thing, adding a few stitches to her petticoats, sewing in three more silk budlets to the confection of her hair. But finally she was unarguably completed, and shining like an angel. Raven _was _rather an angel. He let her see herself in the full-length mirror, and called Mamma's attention from her periodical.

Raven clasped her hands together, and turned from the mirror to him, to the mirror, and then back again. And then she flung her arms around his neck. 'I can't believe it's really me!' she wailed, and he felt a little dampness at his neck, which was no surprise. Raven was a highly emotional girl, which was all well and good normally, but red eyes and tearstains at this juncture of the early evening, after all of his preparation, were totally unacceptable. He pinched her firmly, and stood her up straight by herself, pulling her hands away so that she couldn't rub at her eyes.

'Now, now, none of that,' he said firmly. 'If you cry then I'll cry, and then where will we be? How does she look, Mamma?'

'Very creditable indeed, dear,' Mamma allowed, in her bored and drawling tones. 'I must admit you have done a better job than even Sykes could have managed. Really, I don't know how you do it.'

Through necessity, Charles privately thought: they simply couldn't afford the best help or servantry, and couldn't afford to have that become plain. There was full many a thing he'd learned to turn his hand to quietly over the years, and hairdressing and women's attire – ladys-maiding – was merely one of them. It wasn't as if it was in accord with his natural tastes. He was a manly man: after a fashion.

He patted Raven's cheek affectionately, as she bobbed and giggled and shrieked before the mirror, hitching at her skirts and examining her hair. 'Calm yourself down, my love. I'm going to fetch us all a glass of madeira: and then we must call Carter and be away to the ball. Your suitor – whoever he may be – awaits.'

xxx

And Almack's was no disappointment, as far as the splash Raven made on her debut was concerned. Just for the sake of the sheer number of suitors she looked set fair to accumulate from the expense of a London season, Charles thought privately, as he watched her dance with the latest, it had probably been worth it. No matter how much juggling of the tattered family finances it had taken, and how wretchedly tiny and uncomfortable the rooms they had taken for the duration.

By the end of the evening, she had suitors in double figures, each of them pressing to make themselves known to Mamma and the rest of the family too, three of them going so far as to haul the relatives they had present over as well. One commissioned soldier – but with a decent income and family country house – one baronet's son, a trifle moth-eaten but with a father accounted more stingy than short of funds – and one factory-owning Lithuanian with a chain of new department stores, an obese mamma, and an air of bored contempt. And rumoured to be Semitic by lineage, into the bargain.

Yes, the last was as much of a bewildering surprise to Charles as it must have been to anyone else present. Surely to the cabal that ran Almack's, as much as to anyone? And yet, without their stamp of approval, the Lehnsherr clan could surely not have made their way into those distinguished rooms. Still less have apparently marked it down as their own personal hunting ground.

This fellow, he'd noticed him prior to an introduction, and opened up his ears to listen to all the gossip that was roaring around the rooms like wildfire. It had been of interest to him, because... well, just because. He could come up with a reason as necessary, if necessary. The fellow was tall, lean – a fierce contrast to his pleasant, smiling, softly rounded mamma – and handsome in a slightly alarming way. He might have been thirty, or perhaps a little over, or a little more than that. His hair was dark and his eyes were green, and his tailoring was immaculate. He was _not _a gentleman: and he must have some very influential friends. And a lot of money.

Charles pretended, however, to be completely oblivious, and to have been paying no attention whatsoever, when he came over to be introduced, by the mutual acquaintances he had evidently managed to scrape up. The Hains were friends of the Huxtables, with whom they were seated: and that was sufficient. And the fellow: the fellow was Erik Lehnsherr, as he had already found out, and heaven knows what kind of heathen name that was. At least that was what he tried to think, primly, as Lehnsherr bent over Raven's hand, and made the most courtly and formal approach to her, securing a couple of dances as she fluttered and giggled.

There was something a little perfunctory about it, somehow. Charles didn't know why he thought so: but coming to be introduced to Lehnsherr himself, it was instinctive. It wasn't the first time their eyes had met: he had watched the fellow enough, as he prowled restlessly about the ballroom, to become aware that he was being watched in return. It had made him nervous, then, and quick to drop his scrutiny. And it made him nervous now, having to shake hands with the fellow, and cautiously meet his eyes. There was nothing he could see as hostile there: but he felt himself looked up and down, assessed as if a gelding for market, nothing missed.

'Master Xavier,' the fellow said, though, pleasantly enough. 'As much a pleasure to meet you as your charming sister.' His voice was as genteel and English as any gathered there in the ballroom: all trace of the home country ironed out long since, Charles supposed. But there's more than accent to a voice: and this man's voice was like gravel, like a wild animal that had garnered the power of speech, like a wolf that was masquerading in human clothing. And his looks: the look he was giving to Charles...

It wasn't that Charles was afraid: not exactly. He had learnt the noble and scientific art of boxing while spending his sole term up at Cambridge, before the family finances had finally given out and there had been the crisis meeting that had led to their current plan of action. And it wasn't as if Lehnsherr's face, his eyes, were hostile: or not exactly. There was something else within them. Something hungry, or that was the best way Charles could put it. It left him unnerved: and in a hurry to turn aside, back to his sister or mamma or Lehnsherr's mamma, to make polite conversation and avoid meeting those raw green eyes again.

Xxx

When they got back to their lodgings, Raven was insanely excited, as well she might be. It had been her coming-out ball, after all, and at Almack's. Any girl would have had her head half-turned by the event. As she flung off her clothes from behind the dressing-screen, she gabbled with a merry high-pitched squeal, and Charles sighed and picked up her discarded garments. He would have left it to Hicks: but Hicks had been granted a night off, and it was certainly a night well-earned.

'Charles, darling, ' Raven squealed, as he dived to catch her ribbons and her stockings, 'do you not think that all of my dance partners were excessively handsome?'

Truthfully, that question at least was quite easy to answer. 'Most of them, my darling. I'm afraid that I must confess I thought the baronet's son – was he called William? - had a rather rabbitty chin, what there was of it.'

'Oh, you are very superficial in your judgments, Charles!' she scolded him at that, but with a laugh. And she emerged from behind the screens, clad in her nightgown and a peignoir that was of expensive French satin they could ill afford. But as he had argued to Mamma on purchasing her London wardrobe, that for her to feel that they must skimp and save on small things, would only serve to give her an air of worry and unease. And that, indeed, could prove to be fatal in the project of finding and wooing a solvent suitor. One never knew what tiny aspect might prove to be crucial in the long run.

Both Mamma, and his stepfather, Sir Kurt, had conceded on the issue. Raven was provided with the finest wardrobe that money could buy, for this season only. (And, not being present at the family's crisis meeting – adjudged too young to worry her head with such matters – she was unaware just how much of a chunk even that commitment took out of the family funds. But better, much better, for her not to know. She needed to be relaxed, and merry, and flirtatious, for all of this season, putting her best foot forward and being as enchanting as humanly possible. Which – he thought fondly of his dear little sister – was enchanting _indeed_.

'Well, perhaps you're right,' he conceded easily. 'I'm glad you found something that pleased you in each of them, at any rate. But there's no hurry: there'll be many dances to come, for the next few weeks. And many more young men for you to meet. Don't be in too much of a hurry to find the one.'

And Raven laughed, and took his proffered hand as he kissed her cheek. 'No chance of that, dear brother: I aim to have a little fun before I even think of settling down!'

It was a reasonable enough desire, at seventeen going on eighteen, Charles thought, but he thought it with some foreboding. His sister, in truth, had little enough time for fun, did she but know it. And eventually the chase would be on, and she must make conquests and make a choice, for the sake of the family fortunes. But not quite yet, perhaps: not quite yet.

xxx

Even in the midst of the hustle and bustle of the Season, the Xavier family – or the truncated version attending the Court for the duration – still led the leisured life of the moneyed class. (However erroneous and misleading that appearance might be.) And even in the midst of their leisure, their late wakings and park walks and afternoon tea, there was instilled upon them – or as far as Charles could instill it, when it came to his languid and ennui-ridden Mamma – a sense of considerable _urgency_.

Because Raven's season was, clearly, within a week a complete success. She was, if not the triumph of the Ton this year, at least one of the leading lights of the new influx of ingenues, and trailed at every ball and social event by a wistful gaggle of admirers, herding and gabbling like geese.

That took one worry from Charles' mind, at least: the short-term anxiety that perhaps they had staked their all on one last throw of the dice to no purpose, that Raven's debut in Society would fall flat. That would certainly have been a disaster of unnavigable proportions, and might have sent them home to their dilapidated country estate with their tails between their legs. Not to mention their creditors, hurrying after them.


End file.
